


Take Care of You

by squadrickchestopher



Series: Filthy Porn Fridays [4]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Aftercare, Comfort/Angst, Crymaxing, Dom Clint Barton, Edging, Established Relationship, Internal Conflict, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Nipple Play, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Role Reversal, Sub Bucky Barnes, Vibrators, like it gets mentioned once, no beta we die like men, very very light daddy kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:53:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26325946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squadrickchestopher/pseuds/squadrickchestopher
Summary: “On your knees, Prometheus,” he says, and Bucky kneels, the simple motion settling him even more. “Here’s the deal.” He reaches forward, tilts Bucky’s chin up. “We can do any number of things. We can hang out in this house and watch TV, and I can verify my status as World’s Best Cuddler. I can give you something to do, like a task or a mission or whatever. Or, if you want, we can have some mind-blowing sex, and I can do my best to melt your brain until it’s not possible for you to think anymore.” He holds his gaze on Bucky’s, and solemnly adds, “I am prepared for all three occasions.”
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: Filthy Porn Fridays [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1860367
Comments: 17
Kudos: 173
Collections: Clintucky Fried Bunnies, Winterhawk Bingo Round Two





	Take Care of You

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, thanks to CFC server for this monstrosity <3 love you guys
> 
> No beta, all mistakes are mine mine mine and you can't have them
> 
> Filling my "slutty bucky barnes" square for WHB

“Goddammit,” Bucky mutters for the third time in as many minutes. He keeps missing shots—or rather, the enhanced assholes he’s shooting at have stupid fast reflexes,—and every single wasted bullet is winding him up, making him more and more tense. He knows, objectively, that he’s past his Hydra days, but there’s still a little voice in the back of his mind that’s counting every missed shot. Counting punishments for later. They hate it when he wastes bullets.

He’s up to seven. Eight, now. “Goddamnit!”

“Language,” Clint says back over the comms, voice light and teasing. And normally that would be enough to bring him back down, pull him back from the brink, but right now it just makes him even more angry.

“Fuck you,” he snaps back, and hates himself. “Leave me the fuck alone.”

There’s silence. Then an arrow zips out of nowhere, sticking to the wall where the targets are hiding. Bucky has a moment to duck before it explodes, shattering in a blast of concrete and rubble. “Try it now,” Clint says, and with them stunned from the explosion, Bucky easily takes them out.

“Thank you,” he makes himself say, even though there’s no disguising the anger in his voice. He doesn’t need help—he’s the fucking Winter Soldier. This is the only thing he’s good at.

Clint, ever the better person, doesn’t comment on it. “You’re welcome,” he says, tone neutral, and Bucky hates it even more. “Cap, you clear?”

“Yeah. Both of you get down here. Help clean up.”

“Fuck you too,” Bucky says to him, and he gets up from his position. He pulls the comm out of his ear, leave the rifle where it is, and leaves the building, vanishing into the maze of empty streets. He doesn’t know where they are, or where the jet is, or how he’s going to get home, but he knows that he can’t let himself be around the others. Not right now. Not until this feeling—whatever this is—fades away.

* * *

Except it _doesn’t_ fade away, and that’s the problem. It stays, under his skin like an unscratchable itch, and it drives him insane. Drives everyone else insane, too, with how much he snaps and snarls at all of them. He yells at Steve for handing him the wrong gun, yells at Bruce for bumping into him in the hallway, yells at Sam for doing a puzzle in the common room.

He even yells at Clint, the best thing that’s happened to him this goddamn century, because he brings Bucky coffee for no good reason. Because Bucky can’t handle being _loved_ right now, he just wants to be furious and angry and hateful. And Clint just takes it in stride, no big deal, and that just makes Bucky feel _worse._

He runs. He beats up punching bags. He destroys things. He convinces Nat to spar with him and only just barely manages to hold back from breaking her leg when she gets him in a thigh lock. He steals Steve’s motorcycle and takes it upstate for three days, where he makes a solid attempt to drink himself into a coma.

It doesn’t work. None of it works. There’s something wrong with him, something twisted up and furious and cold and he doesn’t know how to _deal_ with it. Even all the way out here, it’s still hanging over him, like a dark cloud—

He shoves himself away from the bar top and drops some money on it, then grabs his jacket—Clint’s actually, goddammit—and goes outside.

“About time,” says a familiar voice, and there’s Clint himself, leaning against the motorcycle, and tossing the keys in one hand.

“Where the fuck did you get those?” Bucky asks, patting his empty pockets. “Where—how—”

“I’ll tell you if you tell me what your problem is,” Clint says. His posture is relaxed, his voice easy, but Bucky can see the tightness around his eyes. “Did I do something?”

The anger that’s been eating at him recedes slightly, and Bucky shakes his head. “No,” he says, trying for sincerity. “No, I promise. I’m just—I’m wound up.”

“About?”

“Everything. Nothing. I don’t fucking know.” He holds out a hand. “Give me the keys. You can’t be around me right now.”

“Sure I can.” Clint weighs the keys in his palm. “You’re not gonna hurt me. I know you.”

“I might,” Bucky says, and it kills him that that might be the truth.

“You won’t.” But he tosses the keys to Bucky anyway. “Where are you staying?”

“You already know,” Bucky says, and Clint just shrugs, neither admitting nor denying. “Don’t follow me.” He gets on the bike, brushing past Clint with a roughness that he doesn’t mean.

“Hey,” Clint says, grabbing the handlebars, and leaning down until he’s looking in Bucky’s eyes. “You’ve got twenty-four hours to get your damn head on straight. If I don’t hear from you, I will track you down and I will _make_ you talk about this.”

“I’d like to see you fucking try,” Bucky growls.

Clint’s face is still that blank, neutral gaze. Bucky hates it. He wants Clint to scream at him, to shout, to do _something_ to him. Something that will settle the fire scorching his veins, that’ll force his own rage back—

“Move,” he growls, and starts the bike.

“Twenty-four hours,” Clint says, in a tone that’s either a threat or a promise, and he moves.

* * *

Bucky ditches his phone, changes his clothes, and leaves the bike in a long-term parking lot somewhere. He takes a bus south, then trades it for a train, then steals a car for the last bit, driving at insane, reckless speeds down the highways.

It’s not that he’s trying to _lose_ Clint, exactly. But he’s not safe to be around right now, and his boyfriend is nothing if not determined. Bucky just needs to make it hard enough to show him that Bucky’s not worth the effort to find.

He ends up somewhere in Florida, he thinks, judging by the palm trees, although he’s not sure where exactly. He doesn’t care, anyway. He leaves the car with the keys in it, wipes it down, then walks along the beach, mentally counting down the time.

Halfway through his walk, he finds an empty beach house. It’s child’s play to break in, and he immediately raids the fridge. He’s stupid hungry, and he’s been running on fumes. He just needs to eat, and then maybe go for a swim or something, see if he can go far enough out to exhaust himself—

There’s a knock on the door.

Bucky freezes, mouth full of muffin, and glances at his watch. Twenty-four hours exactly.

He walks to the door like he’s in a dream and opens it, and there he is. Clint fucking Barton, dressed in jeans and a black long-sleeved shirt, like it’s not humid and a million degrees outside. He’s even wearing _sunglasses,_ despite the fact that it’s after midnight, although the lazy grin on his face is almost enough to light up the sky anyway. “Hey darlin’,” he drawls. “Gonna invite me in?”

Wordlessly, Bucky steps back. Clint walks in the house like he owns the place, and glances around. “Cute,” he says, then looks at Bucky. “Swallow your food, buddy.”

Bucky suddenly remembers he’s mid-bite, and forces himself to swallow. “What the fuck,” he finally says. “How did you—”

“You put up a good fight,” Clint says, boosting himself up on the counter. “But I know how to find people.” He leans back on his hands. “Did you figure out your shit?”

“Not really,” Bucky says, the first thing he’s been honest about in twenty-four hours.

“Alright.” Clint reaches over and plucks the muffin from his hand, taking a bite. “How can I help?”

“I don’t think you can,” Bucky admits. “I’m—I’m pissed off.”

“I noticed, funnily enough.” Clint gestures around. “Most people in good moods don’t fuck off to Miami on no notice.” He tilts his head. “Or were you trying to lose me?”

“Did you put a tracker on me?” Bucky asks, avoiding the question.

“I know you,” Clint says, just as good at dodging. They really are perfect for each other. “So what pissed you off?”

“It wasn’t you.” Bucky rubs a hand over his face.

“Yeah, I know. You said it wasn’t. I believe you.” Clint’s still studying him. Bucky gets the feeling that Clint can see right through him, sometimes. “So it was something else, then.”

“Why does it have to be something?” Bucky growls, fists clenching. “Why does everything have to have a fucking reason? What if I just want to be mad about shit for no goddamn point?” He’s yelling now, his voice loud and furious. “Huh? I’m tired of trying to explain myself—to you, to them, to every person who flinches when I move too fucking fast. I’m tired of trying to hold my shit together every fucking second of every fucking day. I’m just—”

The rage boils up in him, choking him, and he turns on his heel, storming out. The glass door shatters when he slams it open, but he doesn’t care enough to be concerned about it. He just keeps going, all the way down to the beach, and watches the waves crash against the shore.

Clint trails after him, like Bucky knew he would. He keeps his distance, though, and doesn’t speak. Just crosses his arms over his chest and waits him out.

“I feel like I’m hanging by a thread,” Bucky says, the words leaving without permission. “I’m tired of it. Of making decisions. Of trying to be a person. I just—I want to not think. I’m tired of thinking.” He laughs bitterly. “I miss Hydra for that, sometimes. Isn’t that fucked up? They tortured me, but at least I didn’t have to fucking think all the time. Just did what I was told.” He laughs again. “There’s something wrong with me.”

Clint shrugs. “Being a person is hard,” he says. “It’s not fucked up to want out of your own head for a bit.”

He faces Bucky then, an unreadable expression on his face. “That what you want?”

“What?”

“To be out of your head for a bit. Is that what you want?”

“I guess. I don’t know.” He stares at the sea, watching it roll in and out, an ancient, timeless dance. He’s not sure which he identifies more with right now---the waves, endlessly hurling themselves onto the shore, or the sand, taking furious punishment without being able to strike back.

“Okay,” Clint says, and Bucky looks at him. “Okay. I think I can help.”

“You can’t help—“

“Stop talking,” Clint says, voice like steel, and he draws himself up to his full height. “Now.”

There’s a tiny part of Bucky that snarls in rage against that, a little stubborn piece of Brooklyn that rears up and says _no fucking way_. But there’s a look in Clint’s eye, one that he’s never seen before, and Bucky suddenly knows that if he starts that fight, he’ll lose. Clint won’t _hurt_ him, but he’ll lose all the same.

So he closes his mouth, puts his hands by his side, and he waits. And it—

It’s _calming_ , somehow, settling in a way he didn’t think was possible. The order—simple, easy to follow—snaps him out of his head, out of the chaos and storm of thoughts raging there. The anger recedes a bit, and he finds himself breathing for the first time in what seems like hours.

Clint nods. “Good,” he says, reading the sudden change in Bucky’s posture, and gestures towards the house. “Come with me.”

Bucky trails after him. They walk right up the stairs, through the shattered door, and past the kitchen. Heading to the bedroom, Bucky realizes after a moment, and his feet stutter of their own accord. “Clint,” he says, and Clint looks back at him, face utterly blank. “I’m—what are you—“

“Before you finish that sentence,” Clint says, holding up a hand, “let me ask you something. Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” Bucky says immediately. “Of course I do.”

“No.” Clint shakes his head. “I _mean_ it, Bucky. Back against the wall, gun to your head, straight fucking answer. Do. You. Trust. Me?”

Bucky considers, looking him over. He thinks of all the times Clint’s had his back, all the times he’s been there as whatever support Bucky needed. Thinks about the pizza dates, and their disastrous attempts to cook together, and the nights of MarioKart marathons. Thinks about the way he’s opened his heart for Bucky, accepting and loving him despite the truckload of baggage and awful shit that he comes with.

Thinks about the way he tracked Bucky to Florida, like it was absolutely nothing to follow the trail that Bucky _deliberately_ made hard.

“Yeah,” he says again, surprised to find his voice rough with emotion. “More than anything.”

“Okay,” Clint says, and reaches out, taking his hand. “I’m gonna help you. But I need you to keep trusting me. Nothing’s gonna happen that you don’t want. Understand?”

Bucky nods.

“Words,” Clint says. “That’s rule one. The most important rule. You have to talk to me. And not what you think I want to hear—I want real answers. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Bucky murmurs.

“Good,” Clint says, and he steps forward, pressing a soft kiss to Bucky’s mouth. “I want you to go into the bedroom. Take off your jacket, and whatever else you want, then kneel by the bed and wait for me. Got it?”

“Got it,” Bucky says, the words sliding out of him.

Clint smiles at him. It’s fond, but it’s also edged with something—anticipation maybe, a hint of danger, and it makes Bucky’s heart double in rhythm. “Go,” is all he says, and Bucky goes, walking like he’s in a dream.

He pulls off his jacket and his shirt, folding both carefully before setting it on a nearby dresser. It hits him, then, that they’re about to have sex in a stranger’s home. Or at least, that’s his guess—he’s not sure what Clint’s got planned. _Take off your clothes and kneel_ sort of implies sex, but that could also lead to any number of things, and—

“You’re thinking too hard,” Clint observes, and Bucky jumps out of his skin, whipping around with his fists up. Clint doesn’t even look phased by it. He just raises an eyebrow, then says, “Guess you did say that was the problem.”

“I don’t know what you want,” Bucky says.

“I told you what I wanted.”

“No, you told me to take my jacket off and kneel by the bed. That’s not—“

Clint drops a duffel bag on the floor and steps forward. “Settle,” he says, voice firm, and Bucky’s shoulders instantly relax, a tension in him uncoiling at the firm tone. “I told you nothing’s gonna happen that you don’t want. You said you trust me. I’ll explain more in a minute. Right now, I want you to do what I told you to do.”

Bucky stares at him for a moment. He could leave—could just walk past Clint and go. Clint would let him, too. Wouldn’t raise a hand or a question to stop him.

But then he’d be back at square one, all pent up and no place to go, and he suspects that at some point he’d just end up back here, going round in circles once again.

“New liver, same eagles,” he mutters out loud, and Clint snorts out a laugh, the sound of it easing Bucky more than anything else.

“On your knees, Prometheus,” he says, and Bucky kneels, the simple motion settling him even more. “Here’s the deal.” He reaches forward, tilts Bucky’s chin up. “We can do any number of things. We can hang out in this house and watch TV, and I can verify my status as World’s Best Cuddler. I can give you something to do, like a task or a mission or whatever. Or, if you want, we can have some mind-blowing sex, and I can do my best to melt your brain until it’s not possible for you to think anymore.” He holds his gaze on Bucky’s, and solemnly adds, “I am prepared for all three occasions.”

Bucky glances at the duffle bag, then up at him. “You realize that was the _creepiest_ way you could’ve said that last bit, right?”

Clint grins. “Yeah. I know.” He leans forward and kisses Bucky’s forehead. “Pick a card, any card, and that’s the last decision you have to make tonight.”

Bucky shivers a bit at the kiss, the back of his neck suddenly prickling “You promise?”

“I promise.” He considers. “I might ask you some stuff, if you pick option three. But that’s more of a check-in than a decision, really.”

“What if I don’t want any of them?”

“Then we figure something else out. I’m down for anything. You wanna play cat-and-mouse around the rest of the country, we can do that.” He flashes another lazy smile. “I can give you more of a head start this time if that’ll make you feel better.”

Bucky shakes his head. “Not gonna help.” He can still feel the rage brimming under his skin, like a pot about to boil. He needs something to _do_ , something to counter it. Needs to be pulled over the edge before he does it to himself, because if he does it himself the explosion is going to be _spectacular_.

He’s interested in the cuddles, certainly, and vaguely curious about what tasks Clint might assign him—probably something to do with getting food, if he knows Clint at all—but really, sex is likely the best option. Good way to blow off steam, good way to reconnect, and if he’s honest, he wants to know what Clint’s got planned.

“Three. I want—I want that.”

Clint gives him one beat to change his mind, then nods. “Okay. Three it is.” He puts a steadying hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “What’s rule one?”

“Words,” Bucky says. “Gotta talk to you.”

“Good boy,” Clint murmurs, and it’s… _odd_ , to hear that coming from him. Bucky’s normally the one saying that. He likes to watch Clint blush furiously, likes to watch the way his eyes darken and his shoulders ease every time Bucky praises him. This—this isn’t how it usually goes.

But he can suddenly see the appeal of it, in a way. It doesn’t turn him on, not like it does to Clint, but it makes him—softer, almost. Makes him more relaxed. He’s good. He’s doing well. All he has to do is follow orders, and Bucky can manage that.

“Rule two,” Clint says, and he tilts Bucky’s head up to meet his eyes. “Safe words. Red is stop, yellow is slow down, green is go. Understand?”

That, at least, is familiar territory. They’re not super kinky, but Clint had brought up safe words early on in their sex life, more as a check-in system, and Bucky had jumped on it. He likes knowing that Clint’s okay, that he has a way out if he needs it. “Yes.”

“Good.” Clint’s grip on his chin gets firmer. “Is there anything you _don’t_ want me to do?”

“No handcuffs,” Bucky says immediately.

“I brought ropes.” Clint gestures towards the bag.

Bucky looks at it, then at Clint. “Did…did you _plan_ for this?”

“I came prepared,” Clint says mysteriously. “For many things.” He studies Bucky. “Okay. Rule three, you tell me when you’re about to come. _Every_ time.”

“Every time,” Bucky repeats, his mouth suddenly going dry with the implications of that. “Okay.”

Clint smiles, that dark grin edged with anticipation again. “You look nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” Bucky says immediately. “Why would I be nervous?”

“No reason.” The grin gets wider. “Clothes off. Now.”

Bucky removes the rest of his clothes, and folds them on top of the dresser along with his shirt. It’s not something he normally does, but it just seems distantly disrespectful to throw his clothes around in a stranger’s house.

He looks back at Clint, who’s just watching with an interested expression, eyes roving all over Bucky’s body. “Like what you see?” Bucky asks, and Clint smirks a little.

“Always,” he says, and pulls a length of red rope from the bag. “Kneel for me. Hands behind your back.”

Bucky obeys wordlessly, sinking down to his knees again. His mind seems to sink with him, a warm buzz settling into his skin. “Good,” Clint murmurs, pressing a soft kiss just above his ear. “You’re perfect for me. Hold still. You’ll tell me if this gets uncomfortable.”

It’s an order, not a question, but Bucky nods anyway. “I will.”

Clint hums happily and kisses him again, then beckons him forward. “Come here,” he says, and Bucky shuffles after him on his knees. There’s a floor length mirror on the other side of the bed. Clint turns Bucky to the side, then kneels behind him. “Watch,” he orders, and Bucky watches their reflection as Clint winds the ropes around his arms, confidently tying knots, adjusting Bucky’s arms into position and looping the ropes with ease. It’s hot, watching him work, but it’s also weirdly calming. It’s not a complicated tie—he could probably get out of it if he needed to—but it’s just tight enough that he feels secure. His arms are behind him, forearms stacked, elbows bent. The ropes cross over his chest in a star pattern, over his shoulders, framing his pecs. They’re not quite around his throat, but they’re close enough that when he swallows, he can feel the texture of it.

“Okay,” Clint says, tying off the last of it. “Systems check. Not too tight?”

“No,” Bucky says, wiggling his fingers. “They’re okay.”

“Color?”

“Green.”

“Good,” Clint praises, and Bucky feels that warmth suffuse him again, a haze settling over his mind. “You look so good like this, Bucky. Look.” He turns Bucky’s head towards the mirror again, runs his fingers along the ropes by his neck. “See that?”

“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs, and the word is almost slurred, which somewhat surprises him. He’s sinking fast, feeling like he’s underwater, loose and languid and pliable. It’s nice. It’s relaxing.

Clint smiles at him in the mirror, and winds his fingers into Bucky’s hair. “Want this up?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says again, like it’s the only word he can say right now. Maybe it is. Clint just nods, carefully running his fingers through the strands. Bucky closes his eyes, sinking back into him as Clint gently gathers it up, producing a hair tie out of nowhere. Some distant, still aware part of Bucky is jealous of the easy way he ties it up, tossing it in a bun with zero effort that looks better than all the ones Bucky tries to do.

“Easier on other people,” Clint says, reading his expression. “I’ll teach you to braid it some day, would you like that?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says for the third time, and Clint laughs before tugging him to his feet and settling him on the bed.

“Tell me the words,” he says.

“Green is go, yellow is slow down, red is stop.”

Clint presses a kiss to his temple, then goes over to his bag. He doesn’t take anything out, just brings it closer and drops it by the bed. Bucky looks at it curiously, then up at Clint, an unspoken question on his lips.

“In a bit,” Clint says. “First thing, I’m gonna take care of you. Take the edge off.”

Bucky looks down at himself, suddenly realizing that he’s hard, and probably has been for a while. He didn’t even notice.

Clint steps a little closer, then drops to his knees with an unexpected grace. “What’s rule three?”

“Tell you before I come,” Bucky says, swallowing as Clint pushes his legs a little further apart. “You—”

Clint lightly strokes his dick, making Bucky’s hips hitch forward. “I what?”

“You look good,” Bucky manages, because it’s the absolute truth. Clint’s still fully dressed, and there’s a mischievous glint in his eyes, and he’s looking at Bucky like he wants to eat him alive, and the whole picture is just _doing things_ to Bucky. “Really good.”

“You’re sweet,” Clint tells him, lightly brushing his lips over the inside of Bucky’s knee. It’s surprisingly intimate. He keeps going, little biting kisses along Bucky’s thighs, just slight nibbles to the sensitive skin. He takes his time about it, to the point where Bucky is practically writhing under him, silently begging him to touch more.

“Something you want?” Clint asks, resting his chin on Bucky’s knee and looking up innocently. His eyelashes are _so_ long, Bucky notices, almost unfairly pretty. “You can always ask.”

Bucky resolutely shakes his head, because two can play at this game. He gets the feeling that all the cards are stacked against him, though. Or if they’re not now, they’re gonna be. “This payback?” he asks, voice breathier than he’d like.

“Call it what you want,” Clint murmurs. “You’re always so good to me. Maybe I’m just looking to return the favor. And I did promise brain melting.” He carefully circles Bucky’s dick with one hand, watching as Bucky’s breathing stutters.

“You said ‘take the edge off,’ _”_ Bucky accuses, trying to thrust up into his hand. He doesn’t really have the leverage for it. The bed’s a little too tall, and his legs are spread a little too wide, and Clint _knows_ that.

Clint shrugs. “Edge off, edging, same difference.”

“It is _not_ —” He cuts off as Clint licks around his dick, little kitten licks that don’t do anything except illustrate how much he wants more. “Fuck.”

“Semantics,” Clint says, pulling back again. “You gonna argue with me over words, or you want your dick sucked?” Bucky scowls down at him, which doesn’t do much. Clint just pats his leg and says, “You’re cute when you’re annoyed,” and drags his tongue up Bucky’s cock again.

“Fuck,” Bucky says, and that’s the last coherent thing that comes out of his mouth for a while. Clint just keeps _teasing,_ licking around the head, all the while tracing his fingertips over every inch of skin he can reach. Bucky feels like a live wire by the time Clint actually gets around to sucking his dick, taking it halfway down before coming up, running his tongue just under the head and grinning wickedly as Bucky wriggles and moans above him.

“Oh baby,” he says, all faux-sympathetic. “You wanna come?”

“Yes,” Bucky grits out, wriggling again.

“That’s nice,” Clint says. “You can come when I say you can, and not before then.”

“ _Clint_.”

“ _Bucky_ ,” he echoes. Bucky whines a little, pushing into his touch, and Clint just takes his hands off entirely, settling them on Bucky’s thighs. “You’re mine,” he says, voice low, a possessive note to it. “Just let me take care of you, baby. I got you.”

Bucky manages a short nod, and Clint comes up to kiss him. “Open,” he murmurs against Bucky’s mouth, and Bucky lets him in, lets him go where he wants. It’s nice to not have to think, to just give up control and let Clint ravage his mouth, to just sit and feel as Clint’s hand moves up and down his cock, thumb lazily rubbing over the head every few times.

He’s gasping for air by the time Clint pulls off to press slow kisses down his neck, one hand still around his cock. “Okay,” he says, mouthing over Bucky’s thundering pulse, sucking hard enough that Bucky knows it’ll bruise later. “You can come.”

It takes Bucky a moment to realize that those quiet words are what he’s been waiting for. He’s on the edge of it, but Clint’s hand is too loose around his cock, and he needs _more_ , it’s not enough—

“I thought you wanted to come,” Clint says, voice teasing. “Change your mind?”

“More,” Bucky says, trying to thrust up into his hand. “More, Clint, please—”

“Begging already,” Clint says, keeping his hand deliberately still. “I like that.”

Bucky lets out a strangled noise and drops his head onto Clint’s shoulder. “ _Clint_ ,” he says, and Clint’s chest rumbles with a laugh.

“I suppose,” he says, and then his grip tightens, and it’s only a few more seconds before Bucky chokes on a cry, spilling into his hand with a shudder. Clint holds onto him, a steady, grounding presence as the pleasure flashes through Bucky, white-hot and intense and perfect.

Clint holds him through the aftershocks, murmuring soft words. “Look so pretty,” he says, lips right against Bucky’s ear. “Love watching you come for me.”

“Mmm,” Bucky says, which is about all he can say. His brain’s not quite melted, but he certainly feels better, the rage and anger now distant, like a storm slowly blowing away. He’s just kind of…floating, sated and happy.

By the time he gets his eyes open again, Clint’s cleaning his hand off, and looking at Bucky with a tender expression. “You okay?”

“Green,” Bucky mumbles. “Thank you.”

“Oh baby,” Clint says, kissing his forehead. “You say that like you think we’re done.”

Bucky blinks, looking up at him. “We’re not?”

Clint raises his eyebrows. “No.”

And fuck, but that word _does_ things to Bucky, sends a full body shudder through him. “Oh,” he says, and Clint pauses a moment, clearly giving him a chance to safe word out if he needs it.

When Bucky doesn’t, he smiles like a shark, predatory and wide, and leans around behind him to check the ropes and the circulation. “Color?”

“Green.”

“Good.” Clint rubs a hand over his chest, lightly pinching one of his nipples. Bucky whimpers a little, tries to arch into the contact. It’s difficult with the ropes, but the slight movement gets the idea across. Clint chuckles and rolls it between his thumb and index finger. “Oh, you like this?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, like Clint doesn’t know that already, as if they haven’t explored each others’ bodies enough times to know all the sensitive spots. He forgets, sometimes, that as good as he is at taking Clint to pieces, Clint knows him right back. And right now, tied up and at his mercy, the thought is intensely arousing. “I like it.”

“Good,” Clint says, and moves to the other one, leaning down and sealing his mouth over it. Bucky gasps as Clint sucks hard, adding a little scrape of his teeth before laving his tongue over it.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his dick already twitching into life again—fucking super soldier refractory periods, he can never decide if it’s a good thing or not. “Fuck, oh—”

“Think you can come from this?” Clint asks.

“Dunno,” Bucky says, swallowing hard. The ropes rub against his throat. “Maybe?”

“Mm,” is all Clint says, and he keeps going, alternating between gentle bites and long, soothing swipes of his tongue. “We’ll experiment.”

Bucky makes a noise that’s halfway between agreement and a moan, and Clint moves to his other nipple, giving it the same treatment. He tugs on the other one, a steady blunt pressure that gets Bucky squirming.

“You’re so _sensitive_ ,” Clint says, grinning at him. “I like it.”

“Uh-huh,” Bucky says, squirming even more. “Ah—fuck—”

Clint drops his hand down to Bucky’s dick, running a single fingertip from base to tip. Bucky gasps, jerks his hips forward into the contact. “Ready to go again, huh?”

“ _Ahh_ —” Bucky says. He’s _so_ fucking sensitive, still strung out from the first orgasm, and he swears he can feel Clint’s fingerprint, every ridge and whorl rubbing against him. “ _Jesus_ , Clint—”

“Too much?” Clint asks, doing it again. “You know what to say.”

And he does, but _too much_ is starting to tip into _so goddamn good,_ and Bucky doesn’t really _want_ him to stop, so he doesn’t say anything. Clint just chuckles and goes back to sucking on Bucky’s nipple, tweaking other other one with his fingers. Bucky can’t decide which direction to go, if he wants more, or less, or something else entirely. He’s drowning in sensations, losing himself in the heat of Clint’s mouth, and the steady way he’s pressed against Bucky, one hand settled on his hip to help keep him in place.

Bucky’s dick is fully hard again by the time Clint backs off, mouth wet and shiny. “You taste so damn good,” he says, coming up for another kiss, winding one hand into Bucky’s hair and tugging. Bucky follows the pressure, tilts his head back and opens his mouth. Clint kisses him with something bordering on desperation, hot and heavy and filthy as sin. “Can’t fucking get enough of you.”

“You got me,” Bucky says, and Clint hums in acknowledgement before kissing him again. “Always.”

“Got me too,” Clint says, like it’s just that easy. “Even when you try to ditch me for Florida.”

“Knew you’d follow me,” Bucky says between kisses. “You always do.”

“Always will,” Clint promises, and there’s so much sincerity in his voice that Bucky finds his eyes prickling with sudden tears. Clint just smiles softly, brushes a kiss over his forehead before dipping his head to nibble at the mark he’d left earlier on Bucky’s neck. “Already healing,” he says, licking at it. “Guess you need more.”

Bucky sucks in a breath, the sharp sting of the nerves there a contrast to the soft way he’s thumbing over Bucky’s nipples again, lightly teasing and flicking them. “Clint,” he mumbles, not sure what he’s even planning on following it up with.

“Bucky,” Clint murmurs right back, making another mark on the other side of his neck. “You gonna come?”

“Maybe,” Bucky says. He can feel it curling in him, a low heat staring to unfurl in his gut. “I don’t know.”

“Tell me before you do,” Clint instructs, and Bucky nods, words failing him as Clint scrapes his teeth over Bucky’s pulse. “Good boy.”

He pinches Bucky’s nipple, just hard enough to make him gasp, and his brain shorts out for a moment, the intensity of it overwhelming. Clint does it again, and the same thing happens.

Fuck, he might actually come from this. He hadn’t _really_ thought it was possible, but Clint’s playing him like a fucking violin, fingers and mouth moving in perfect concert to draw out every gasp and groan. “I’m—,” he gets out, his muscles tightening, his fingers curling behind his back—

Clint stops.

Not just stops, but backs off entirely, a full step away from Bucky. He drops his arms by his side, surveying Bucky like a conqueror looking over his kingdom, a satisfied grin on his face.

“What,” Bucky says, suddenly feeling like he’s about to fall over, dizzy from having his impending orgasm snatched from him. “But—”

_But you asked if I could come from that,_ is what he wants to say, and Clint grins wider.

“Didn’t say I’d let you,” he says. “Just asked if you could. Which apparently, you can. Good to know.” He kneels down to the bag, then looks up at Bucky. “Toys okay?”

Bucky manages a nod, and when Clint just keeps waiting, says, “Green.”

It comes out as a slur of sound, but the point must get across, because Clint nods and opens the bag. He doesn’t pull out any toys, though, just a few more lengths of rope, shorter this time. “Can I tie you to the bed?”

Bucky takes a shaky breath, then nods. “Please,” he says, and Clint’s eyes darken. He kisses Bucky, then tosses the ropes on the bed and climbs up on it behind him. For all the work that went into tying Bucky like this, he has it undone relatively quickly, pulling the knots free with practiced fingers. “Shake out a bit,” he says when the last one comes off.

Bucky brings his arms in front of him. He doesn’t touch his dick, as much as he’s aching to, and there’s an approving hum from Clint as he just flexes his arms and rotates his wrists, hearing the faint whirr as his left arm recalibrates. He turns slightly, waiting for his next instruction, and gets a long kiss instead, deep and sensual. Clint’s hands gently rub at his shoulders, easing some of the aches there.

“Okay,” he says. “On your back. Get comfortable.”

Bucky lays down, settling onto the soft blankets. _This is a stranger’s house,_ he thinks again, and the thought is both alarming and thrilling.

“We’ll wash the sheets before we go,” Clint says, apparently thinking the same thing, and he takes Bucky’s right wrist, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of it before wrapping it in rope and securing it to the slats of the headboard. He watches with satisfaction as Bucky tugs on the little bit of slack, testing the strength of the knots. “I’m good with breaking and entering, but I draw the line at bed vandalism.”

“Least we can do,” Bucky agrees, feeling something in him relax the moment the rope touches his skin.

Clint secures his metal wrist, offering a kiss to that one too. “God, you look so good like this,” he says, sliding a pillow under Bucky’s head. “Could keep you here forever.”

Bucky whines a little at that, and Clint just laughs before getting off the bed and digging around in his bag again. He comes up with something Bucky doesn’t recognize, at least not until he holds it up, a delighted look in his eye.

“Oh, fuck,” Bucky mutters. It’s a magic wand, one they’ve used a couple times before. He has vivid memories of Clint being nearly catatonic underneath him as Bucky held it against his dick, whispering _come on, baby, just one more_ for the third time in a row.

“In a bit,” Clint agrees. “But first—” he clicks it on, then crawls onto the bed between Bucky’s legs, putting a soothing hand on his thigh as he urges them wider. He’s still got all his clothes on, hasn’t even made a move to take them off. Bucky can tell how turned on he is, but Clint doesn’t appear to notice the way he’s tenting his jeans. He’s looking at Bucky, all that sniper intensity focused directly on him, and it makes Bucky feel naked in a way that’s deeper than just not wearing clothes.

“You’ll tell me,” he says, holding the vibrating head just above Bucky’s cock.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, staring at it, chest already heaving. “I—yeah.”

“Good boy,” Clint says, voice dark with amusement, and he lowers his hand, just barely making contact.

Bucky arches up with a strangled cry, remembering at the last second not to pull too hard with his metal arm. “Jesus _fuck_ ,” he says, bucking his hips up into it. “I—Clint—I’m gonna—”

“So soon?” Clint asks, pulling it away. “Oh, baby. You’re gonna be in for a rough time if that’s all you can take.”

“ _Hnngh_ ,” is all Bucky can say in response, and Clint laughs before lowering the vibrator again. He’s borderline _sadistic_ about it, playing with the vibrations and intensity, drinking in every single one of Bucky’s moans and shouts. He turns it down to practically nothing, settling it against Bucky’s balls while he mouths at Bucky’s nipples, biting and sucking on them until the answering cries get high-pitched and needy. He ratchets it all the way up and drags it up and down Bucky’s body, studying with interest the trail of goosebumps it leaves, and the way Bucky shudders and shivers and squirms. He brings Bucky to the edge over and over and over, until there’s nothing in his mind but pure _need_ , white hot and burning and—

“Baby,” Clint finally says, trailing his fingers through the mess on Bucky’s stomach. “You’re so wet for me. Look at this.” He holds his fingers up, shiny and glistening, and Bucky opens his mouth without thinking.

Clint tilts his head, then reaches forward, letting Bucky lick his fingers clean. Bucky’s so far gone he doesn’t even care how he looks, sucking Clint’s hand like its his cock—which, fuck, would be even _better_ —

“Easy,” Clint murmurs, and finally clicks off the fucking vibrator, setting it on the nightstand. “Here’s what’s gonna happen, love.” He brushes Bucky’s dick with the back of his hand, grinning as Bucky whimpers and arches both into and away from it. “I’m gonna flip you over, open you up a little, and then I’m going to fuck you. You’re not going to come until I say you can. Got it?”

“Got it,” Bucky tries to say, although he’s not sure _how_ he’s going to do that. He feels like he’s balancing on a knife edge, and if the breeze blows the wrong way, he’s gonna fucking lose it, just shatter into a million pieces—

“You can do it,” Clint tells him. “You’re being real good for me, Buck, you can be good a little longer.” He settles his hands onto Bucky’s hips, helping him turn over. Bucky cries out as his cock rubs against the blankets, but then Clint’s pushing him onto his knees, pulling him up far enough that he’s away from it.

“Christ,” Bucky mumbles, burying his face in the pillow. He’s _crying_ now, apparently, tears soaking the fabric beneath him. He doesn’t know when he started, or even really how to stop, so he just lets it happen. Clint will take care of him. All he has to do is follow orders. One order, really, and he focuses on that, tries to make that his center.

“You’re doing so good,” Clint says again. Bucky hears the distant sound of him shedding his clothes, and then he palms over Bucky’s ass, spreading him open. Bucky clenches his fist, focusing on the whir of the plates in his hand, trying not to imagine Clint’s expression right now as he looks at Bucky—

Then there’s fingers sliding into his hole, slick and cool, and he chokes on nothing, fist clenching even tighter. “Oh god,” he says, more tears slipping out. “Oh god, oh _god_ —”

“You’re okay,” Clint tells him, tone level. “You’re being good.”

Bucky nods frantically into the pillow even as he shoves his hips back, demanding more. He’s not sure if he can _take_ more, but his body is moving on its own, higher thought pretty much gone in favor of mindless action, chasing an orgasm he’s not allowed to have.

Then Clint’s tongue joins the party, and Bucky just about _dies_ , yelling into the pillow loud enough that he’s pretty sure the whole fucking state hears him anyway. Jesus fuck, this is it, this is gonna be what kills him, he’s going to have a goddamn heart attack right here in some random bed from his boyfriend rimming him—

“I think you’re ready,” Clint says, casual, like he’s not _ruining_ Bucky. “You think so?”

Bucky makes some garbled mixture of sound and shoves his hips back. Clint laughs, and then he’s pushing into Bucky, slow and steady, filling him up in a way that’s perfect, everything he needed. Bucky takes in a long breath as Clint moans, pressing forward until his hips are flush against Bucky’s ass.

Then he just _stays_ there, the rotten _bastard_ , and rubs a hand over Bucky’s spine. “You okay?”

“Fuck me,” Bucky demands, raising his head enough to be heard. “Fuck me, Clint, I swear—”

“Just want to make sure you’re okay,” Clint says, and the teasing tone in his voice makes Bucky want to both punch him and kiss him. “I’m taking care of you, don’t wanna go too fast.”

“I’m fine, it’s green, would you please just—” He cuts off with a moan as Clint pulls out, then snaps his hips forward, making Bucky see stars behind his closed eyes. “ _Yes_.”

“Don’t come,” Clint warns, his hands settling on Bucky’s waist in a bruising grip. “You hear me?”

“I know,” Bucky says—whines, really—and turns his head, looking at Clint as much as he can. “I know, I promise, please—”

Clint takes that at face value, hitching Bucky into a better position as he _finally_ starts fucking him, nudging Bucky’s prostate on every thrust. The soft words he’s murmuring are a stark contrast to the almost cruel way he’s slamming into Bucky, fast and determined, pulling a string of half-delirious babbles out of him. Bucky doesn’t even know what he’s saying at this point, just a lot of cursing and Clint’s name and once _daddy,_ which slips out by accident and kind of makes him want to die—die more, anyway.

Clint either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. He just reaches one hand around, nudging Bucky’s dick where it’s hard and leaking all over the blanket, making Bucky’s vision flash white. “You’re doing so good,” he says, finally having the decency to sound a little out of breath. “You’re so patient, god, I love you—”

Bucky sobs at that, overstimulated to the point of insanity. He _knows_ Clint loves him, but to hear that now, when he’s cracked open like this, raw and vulnerable—he’s got no defenses against those words, and it’s too much, it’s _too much_ —

“Come for me,” Clint orders, and Bucky’s _gone,_ coming so hard he can barely see, stars in his eyes and a roaring sound in his ears. He chokes on a scream, muffles his face into the pillow as his entire body clenches up, so tense that he’s shaking with it.

Then he just fucking _melts_ , going utterly boneless, only hazily aware of Clint still fucking into him, chasing his own orgasm, mouth slack against Bucky’s neck as he grinds forward. His hand is hard around Bucky’s waist, grip tight as he holds him up, and it’s only a few more thrusts until he swears quietly and comes too. “Fuck,” he mutters, collapsing to the side after a long, shuddering moment. He tugs Bucky with him, settling them onto the blanket, reaching up with one hand to undo the knots around his wrists, freeing him from the headboard.

Bucky’s barely aware of anything. He’s swimming out among the stars, floating in the stratosphere, completely checked out. He just lays there, half-listening to Clint as he murmurs soft things in Bucky’s ear, hand gently tracing over every inch of skin he can reach.

It’s at least six lifetimes before Bucky’s breathing returns to something resembling normalcy, before he can open his eyes open enough to see the morning light sneaking in through the window. Clint smiles at him when he does, soft and easy, and leans forward enough to kiss his forehead. “Hey,” he murmurs. “How you doing?”

“‘M good,” Bucky mumbles, forcing his mouth to move. “Great.”

“Okay,” Clint says. “You were amazing, babe, you did _so_ fucking good.”

Bucky just nods and closes his eyes again. Christ, he’s so tired. He’s got nothing left in him anymore. Whatever was under his skin, whatever anger was coiling there, is long gone. He’s just empty now, pleasantly blank and exhausted.

“I know you’re tired,” Clint says. “But we should get cleaned up—we both need a shower.”

“Stay,” Bucky grumbles.

“I know,” Clint says, chuckling. “Come on.” He sits up enough to unwind the ropes from Bucky’s wrists, massaging the right one. “Nice marks,” he adds, and Bucky cracks an eye enough to see the red circles around his skin. “They okay? They hurt?”

“’S green,” Bucky says.

“Good,” Clint says, and kisses his wrist. “Come on. I love you, but I am not strong enough to carry you to the bathroom. There’s a nice bench in there, you can even sit down.”

Bucky scowls, but there’s a note in Clint’s voice that tells him to move, so after a moment he does, forcing his uncooperative limbs to fumble around until he’s upright. Clint helps him off the bed and walks him into the bathroom, gently depositing him on the bench. It’s a nice bathroom, really. Maybe they should get a beach house here. Hell, they should just buy this one, since they’ve already defiled it—

“I think someone owns this one,” Clint says, starting the shower. “But we can get a beach house if you want.”

Bucky blinks, realizes he’s been talking out loud. “Oh,” he says, and leans back against the tile. “Yeah. That would be nice.”

He stays there, just letting Clint clean him up, moving wordlessly at his muttered commands. This is usually _his_ role, putting Clint’s pieces back together after fucking him into oblivion, and it’s just—well, it’s nice to be on the other side of things. To let himself be taken care of. To know that he can just let go, and Clint will make sure he’s okay.

Clint cleans himself up, then shuts the water off and grabs the world’s fluffiest towel, drying Bucky off with careful movements before sitting him on the closed toilet and grabbing his own. “Okay,” he says after, tossing both towels over the bar. “Come on. Let’s get you to bed.”

“This is someone’s house,” Bucky says, stumbling after him. He thinks about the food in the fridge, and the shattered back door. “We should—”

“It’s fine,” Clint says. “We’re not moving in. We’re just gonna rest a little, then clean up and go.”

“If we get arrested, I’m blaming you,” Bucky tells him, swaying a little as Clint lets go of him. He’s got a point, though—they’re both exhausted. Twenty-four hours of no sleep, and then brain-melting sex—he’d be hard-pressed to find his way out of a paper bag right now, let alone navigate a route back home.

“I’m good with that,” Clint says. He strips back the covers, tossing the duvet on the floor, and pushes Bucky onto the bed. He rummages around in his bag and comes up with two water bottles. “Drink.”

Bucky drinks, thirstier than he realized. He finishes over half of it before setting the rest on the night stand next to the vibrator. “Don’t forget that.”

“Mm,” Clint says, and grabs it, tossing in onto the ropes next to the bag. “Gotta clean it anyway.” He nudges Bucky. “Lay down, come on. We’re snuggling now.”

Bucky smiles tiredly and arranges himself into a more comfortable position. “C’mere,” he says, holding up an arm. “I wanna hold you.”

“Okay,” Clint agrees, and slots himself right alongside Bucky, tucking his metal arm over his waist and winding their fingers together. “You feeling better?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “A lot better. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Clint says, and clumsily pats at his arm. “I love you.”

Bucky shivers, the words hitting just as hard now as they did half an hour ago. “I love you too,” he says, burying his face in Clint’s hair. “So fucking much.”

Clint squeezes his hand. “Hey,” he says after a moment. “Uh, I know you were a little out of it towards the end there, but…did you call me _daddy?_ ”

Bucky flushes with heat. “I might’ve,” he mumbles. “Sorry.”

Clint laughs. “It’s okay. I just wasn’t sure if I heard it right.” He shrugs. “I don’t mind. I’m not super into it, but it doesn’t weird me out or anything.”

Bucky presses his face harder into Clint’s head. “You melted my brain. Words got a little hard.”

“It’s fine,” Clint says, patting his arm again. “Seriously. I’m cool with it.” He snuggles closer. “Also, I know we’re normally the other way round, but if you ever want some brain-melting sex, all you gotta do is ask. I’m happy to take care of you, if you’ll let me. You don’t have to go running off to Florida first.”

“I know,” Bucky says, voice tight and heart close to overflowing. “I will, next time.”

“We can probably turn this into a vacation, though,” Clint says, suddenly thoughtful. “Oh, sorry Fury, I don’t know where he went, it’ll take me _ages_ to find him.”

Bucky snorts, already feeling the pull of sleep. “How _did_ you find me?”

“Guy’s gotta have some secrets, Barnes.”

“You dropped a tracker on me, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, when I stole the keys.” Clint snickers quietly. “You should pay more attention to your surroundings. And maybe check your pockets more.”

“But I changed my clothes—”

“You kept the jacket. I knew you would. You love that jacket.”

Bucky sighs. “Okay. Fair.”

Clint chuckles. “Go to sleep, Buck.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, and kisses the back of his neck. “Hearing aids.”

Clint sighs, then reaches up and pulls them out, stretching to put them on the nightstand. “What would I do without you?” he asks, and Bucky can hear the smile in his voice.

“I think I’m the one who should ask that,” he murmurs back, kissing Clint’s neck again, still feeling floaty and happy and content. He curls his fingers into the _I love you_ sign, smiles when Clint presses his own fingers back.

He knows there’s still a world out there, beyond this room and this bed. That he’s going to have to explain himself, and talk with Fury, and a whole bunch of other people. That there’ll be other problems, and other bad days, and other things that’ll make him want to crawl out of his own skin.

But for now, he’s got Clint in his arms, and they’re warm, and safe, and they’re both okay. And for this moment, that’s more than enough.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)


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